Arin's fingers hovered just above the hilt of the dagger. She didn't touch it. Not yet. Her eyes flicked to Caldan, then back down to the weapon. The blade gleamed cold and patient in the amber light, like it was waiting to see what kind of hand would claim it. Something about the moment stretched—like time was holding its breath.
She was still. Every muscle tensed, ready to spring. Caldan wasn't. He watched her with that maddening, unreadable expression—somewhere between intrigue and cruel amusement. It was as if he watched a game play out exactly as he'd set it up, yet was still surprised by the precise outcome.
Arin felt his gaze on her like a tangible pressure. Like a suffocating heat. 'He's enjoying this,' she thought bitterly, her jaw clenching. 'Every second. The power. The control. Watching me choose the blade he's already chosen for me.'
Her hand moved anyway, a reluctant concession to his unspoken command. She picked up the dagger.
It felt heavier than it looked, solid and old. Not just the weight of cold steel, but the crushing weight of expectation. Of something binding, inevitable. The handle was worn smooth from countless uses. This wasn't ceremonial; it had been held before. Used before.
And now it was hers.
"You want me to stage your murder?" she asked flatly, her eyes still on the blade, tracing the faint marks on the hilt. "That's not a favor, Prince. That's treason. That's suicide. That's sheer insanity."
Her voice was calm, a steady blade, but her heart wasn't. It pounded like a war drum beneath her silk-draped ribs, a frantic rhythm against the quiet.
Caldan stepped back, just slightly—giving her space. Or maybe giving her room to move, to strike. Perhaps both, the calculating bastard. His gold eyes never left her.
"I want you to be clever, Arin," he said, his voice low, lazy, but with edges sharp enough to cut. "I want you to be dangerous. I want them to believe I'm dead. And I want them to mourn me."
She snorted, a harsh, dismissive sound barely suppressing a laugh. "Right. Because grief is such a reliable political tool. Especially for a prince like you."
He didn't smile. "In the right hands, it is. And I believe yours are the right hands."
Arin lifted the blade, testing its balance with a flick of her wrist, the cold steel a natural extension of her arm. Her thumb brushed the edge. Too fast. A bead of blood welled up, bright crimson against her skin. She winced, bringing it to her mouth, sucking it clean.
'Stupid,' she thought, chastising herself. 'Already bleeding and haven't even started.'
Caldan's eyes followed the movement, a flicker there she couldn't decipher. Approval? Hunger? She couldn't tell. He was too good at masking what truly mattered, what truly lay beneath that cool facade.
"And if I fail?" she asked, the question hanging heavy in the air.
"Then they kill you. Quickly, probably," he said, stepping closer again, his voice low, rich with something that made her skin prickle. "And I stay alive. Miserable and very, very angry. But I don't think you'll fail, little viper."
She narrowed her eyes, a challenge in their grey depths. "You don't even know me, Prince."
"I know enough."
"That's a lie. You know nothing important."
He didn't deny it. Instead, he moved. Fast.
She barely saw it coming. His hand flashed—left for her shoulder, right curled into a fist aimed for her stomach. But she moved faster, instinct taking over precision.
Twisting, body coiling, the black silk dress clinging to her like it was made for combat. She pivoted, her weight shifting, and brought the dagger up in a single, clean motion. Not wild. Not desperate. Precise.
The blade kissed his cheek—a shallow slash just beneath his gold eye. Not deep. But it bled immediately, a thin red line blooming on his pale skin.
He froze, his eyes widening barely perceptibly. She didn't. Arin stepped back, dagger raised, breathing hard. Her pulse thundered in her ears, a frantic drum. Her muscles trembled with the memory of impact, but her grip was steady. She didn't blink, holding his gaze.
The blood slid down his cheekbone, a vivid crimson trail against his stark skin. He touched it with two fingers, a slow, deliberate movement. He looked at the blood, then back at her.
And smiled. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Something else. Something ancient and knowing.
"I've trained soldiers for fifteen years," he murmured, his voice soft, almost awed. "None of them react like that."
She said nothing, just kept the blade pointed at him, ready.
He tilted his head. "You didn't panic."
"You didn't hit me," she replied, her voice clipped. "That makes us even, Prince."
Caldan chuckled. A deep, rough sound, more real than anything he'd said so far. His posture loosened, a subtle shift. Not relaxed—never relaxed—but less like a sword drawn tight to strike, less coiled.
"I meant what I said," he told her, his gaze still on her, admiring. "You're better than half my guards."
She raised a brow, a sardonic twist to her lips. "Which half? The ones who polish armor, or the ones who piss themselves when they lose at dice?"
His grin widened, a flash of teeth. "Exactly."
He moved to the high-backed chair by the hearth and dropped into it like he owned the room, the palace, the world. Legs sprawled, blood drying on his cheek like warpaint, a silent badge of her defiance.
"Keep the blade," he said, gesturing with a lazy hand. "You've earned it."
She didn't say thank you. She didn't lower it either, her grip still firm. Instead, she stared. Quiet. Calculating. Her piercing gray eyes scanned him, an unsolved problem.
"Earlier," she said slowly, her voice laced with suspicion, "you told me I was here to bleed for you. But this?" She gestured around the chamber, at the blood, the blade in her hand. "This feels more like… foreplay, Prince."
Caldan barked a laugh, a sudden, explosive sound. "No courtly dances here, little viper. Just sharp edges and buried truths."
"And blood," she said.
He nodded, his gold eyes gleaming. "And blood. Yours. Mine. Theirs."
Arin's fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger, her knuckles white. A strange thrill, sharp and dangerous, ran through her.
"You think I'll just… do this?" she asked, her voice low, challenging. "That I'll help you fake your death and lie to the whole kingdom? Just because you gave me a bath and a dagger?"
"No," he said simply, his voice firm, unwavering. "I think you'll do it because you hate this court as much as I do."
Her mouth opened, then closed. He wasn't wrong. He was disturbingly right.
She did hate it. The cloying silk, the nobles' smugness, the sick, simmering rot she'd tasted the moment she stepped through the grand gates. She hated how easily people like her were dismissed—dirt under their shoes, blood in their wine.
He saw it. He knew. It was unnerving.
"I don't trust you, Prince," she said, stating the obvious.
"I'm not asking you to," he countered, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
"Then what the hell are you asking me for, Caldan?" she demanded, the question sharp, biting.
He didn't answer right away. Just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gold eyes burning. Not with anger. But with a fierce, unwavering intent.
"I'm asking you to help me tear it all down," he said, his voice a low rumble, resonating with a deep, unsettling conviction. "The court. The dragons. All the lies they've built this kingdom on."
She stared at him, her mouth suddenly dry. A dizzying, terrifying proposition.
"And then what?" she whispered, the words barely audible.
"Then we see who survives."
Her stomach churned. Part thrill, a reckless, wild excitement. Part dread, a cold grip of fear. He stood again, taller than she expected, a looming presence. Her eyes tracked his every movement. Still coiled. Still wary. But her heart—traitorous, foolish thing—beat with something dangerously close to curiosity.
Then— He said it. Soft. Unexpected. A name that ripped through her carefully constructed defenses.
"Your mother."
Everything inside her locked up, a sudden, painful clench. The name that hovered unspoken in her mind every day since they took her from the village. The ghost behind every riddle in her life.
She said nothing, waiting, braced for the impact.
He took a slow step toward her, his eyes fixed on hers.
"She killed a dragon rider, Arin."
The words felt like stones dropped, one by one, into her gut, cold and heavy.
"She killed my uncle."
Arin's mouth went bone dry. He said it without anger. Without ceremony. But not without weight, without the crushing burden of history.
"She vanished after. But not before she left a mark on this place. On me."
Arin's voice came tight and low, barely a whisper. "You don't know anything about her."
He tilted his head, a knowing look in his gold eyes. "I know she left you behind."
That one hit. A direct, painful blow. She didn't flinch outwardly—but he saw the impact in her eyes, the sudden, raw vulnerability.
"I know she was feared. I know she had secrets no one's ever cracked. I know she almost broke the entire kingdom without lifting a single flag."
He stepped closer again. Not threatening. But not safe, either. He was simply there, an undeniable force.
"And I know you carry that same fire. Same danger. Same potential."
Her grip on the dagger tightened, her knuckles white. The cold steel a strange comfort against her palm.
"So what?" she snapped, her voice breaking slightly. "You want to use me? Like they used her?"
He didn't blink. His gaze was unwavering, piercing.
"I want to give you something she never did."
She stared, waiting, a strange hope blossoming amidst the dread.
"A choice."
A pause. Then, without warning, something slid under the massive door with a soft hiss of parchment on stone. Caldan's head snapped toward it, his attention suddenly, fiercely diverted.
He walked over, crouched with an animalistic grace, and picked it up. A letter. Dark wax. A twisted tree sigil, foreign and unsettling. Not his family's sigil. Not friendly.
He broke the seal. Read, his silver brows drawing together. His jaw clenched. His hands curled around the letter, crushing the parchment slightly.
Arin watched him with narrowed eyes, her heart hammering. "Problem?" she asked, her voice dry, a cynical edge to it.
He didn't answer immediately. His face was a mask of cold fury. When he looked up again, his expression had changed. No more smugness. No more amusement. Just something cold. Older than him. Older than the palace.
"She remembers," he said softly, a whisper that was almost a growl. His eyes, burning gold, locked onto Arin's.
Then louder, a sharp, clear command that cut through the silence.
"She waits in Hollowspire."